


You and I

by anonymous_John_H_Watson



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-09
Updated: 2019-11-09
Packaged: 2021-01-26 03:47:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21367663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anonymous_John_H_Watson/pseuds/anonymous_John_H_Watson
Summary: You know the deal. Our 221B boys, stupid and in love
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Kudos: 43





	You and I

Living Without Dying 

Bullets richoteoed. Injuries inflicted. Lives lost. Breathing hard. Eyes closed. Sherlock. Sherlock? John tightened his hold on his gun and ran towards him in the middle of bullets, bombs and blood. The sun blinded his eyes as he shouted,  
"Sherlock, run!"  
But Sherlock stood very still and suddenly the world around him changed. They were no longer in Afghanistan, but in England. Sherlock was on top of a building while John watched from below.  
"Please," he pleaded. "Don't do this."  
John watched as his best friend threw away his phone and so, threw away the only way to talk to John and stepped forward. He watched in disbelief as Sherlock's body fell towards Earth, pray to gravity. And for a moment, for a moment, John hoped, wished, dreamed, believed, Sherlock could fly. He smiled, please, let him fly. But was then hit by a cycle and landed like his friend, smack on the floor. 

He was soon up but he wasn't in England or Afghanistan for that matter, but his room. Realizing it was all a dream, he turned over to see Mary asleep. She hadn't noticed. In the dark, his hands searched for his phone on the bedside table. The screen read 7am. It wasn't very early, he grabbed the phone and went to the washroom. He studied the new scratches on his phone where he had tried to plug in the charger.  
"It was dark." He said in an attempt to justify them. He wasn't an alcoholic. Not now, anyway.  
"No." He heard Sherlock say.  
"Sod off!" John replied.  
He stared at his reflection. How long until his mind would stop playing tricks on him? How long until he would stop hearing Sherlock's voice, stop seeing his face? How much longer?  
John sighed, took off his clothes and stepped into the shower. The cold water made him jump and step out. His heart started beating violently. He chuckled in response. Sherlock always noticed when someone's pulse quickened, when their pupils dilated, when they felt sentimental. He noticed Irene's love for him. But the bastard never saw when John's pupils dilated, when his heart raced as if he had just run a mile, when his breath quickened and a smile appeared on his face. John shrugged at the thought. He couldn't blame Sherlock. After all, even he didn't know he was in love with him. Not until he saw Sherlock's body on the floor, not until his grave was unresponsive, not until Sherlock had died.  
_____________  
You're still here, even if you're not. 

2 months later  
Lips bitten. Eyes shut. Pupils dilated. Breathing fast. Back arched.  
Neck stretched. Toes curled. Sherlock!

John moaned into his neck. He felt Sherlock rut against him. God, he was so hard. He pulled him closer, desperate for the friction, any friction. But Sherlock was teasing, he was holding back, he wasn't going to let this be over so quickly. Sherlock!

John didn't remember what he said, if he said anything, if he begged, if he looked at Sherlock with pleading eyes, if he took his hand himself and fucked it. Fucked Him. Fucked Sherlock's hand. Those fingers, those, God. All he remembers is waking up in a sticky mess with a smug expression on Sherlock's face that can only mean John was loud. Very loud. But as John focused, he saw that Sherlock was blonde, that he wasn't smiling at all, that he was shorter and with eyes that weren't nearly as magnificent as he remembered. As John focused, he realised, this was Mary.

God. Had he said Sherlock's name when he came?

Again?

Mary's expression said it all. Of course, she wouldn't mention it. Bless her heart, she wouldn't, she'd do her best to hide her shock, fake a smile, wash, turn her back towards John and sleep.

It was Wednesday. John was doing better. There were fewer nightmares but more hallucinations. He would see Sherlock everywhere even in places Sherlock wouldn't go to if he was alive. He talked to him (it? Which pronouns does one use to referring to one's hallucinations?) in the grocery store, making snarky remarks about the milk and the lining of products. He giggled to himself when he heard Sherlock make deductions about the customers, how that one particular gentleman is buying a peach after seeing Call Me By Your Name, how the cashier is a closeted lesbian with a massive crush on her best friend (ironic, much?), how that one man buying a spray tan lied to his friends about going to vacation in Italy and so on. But this imaginary Sherlock wasn't just for entertainment.

Sometimes, Greg would call John for an opinion on a case and John would listen to Sherlock's voice in his head make deductions and repeat them to Greg and often times, they helped. Not as much as the actual Sherlock would have, but it helped. But this Sherlock, lack the real Sherlock wasn't just for work either. He was also a brilliant companion. John took this more complaint Sherlock to the movies and made sure that the seat next to him was not booked, so he could sit next to him. He would curse at Sherlock when he gave away the ending and smile when he didn't like old times.

But everything was the same. Sure, smiled and laughed and let their knees brush against each other and at times, said his name when he came but mostly, it was the same cold, stern, arrogant, brilliant, kind, beautiful Sherlock who was only his best friend. John wasn't gay, Sherlock was asexual. It was like old times.

Occasionally, at his therapists insistence, he would go to the graveyard but he wouldn't go anywhere near Sherlock's grave. He would walk around, avoiding it and then would go to therapy and say he visited Sherlock's grave. Such was the life of John Watson.

John did his best to make Mary happy. Months passed, and he learnt to control his moans (to his own surprise) He had learnt to fake a smile. Sometimes, so well that he believed it himself. But maybe that was because he really did smile when Mary spoke because in some ways, she had saved him or maybe it was because behind Mary, was Sherlock who smiled and turned his collar up, who roamed around with his thick curls bouncing away, who sometimes smiled at John like he did before. Smiled at him like- there really there was no way of describing how Sherlock looked at John. He smiled at John like he had just won the Nobel Prize

And saw a genie come out of a lamp he rubbed

And met Benedict Cumberbatch

And beat Mycroft at operation

And found a cure for cancer

And had 50 serial killers start killing at once

And had been gifted kidneys for experimentation

And John? He looked at Sherlock the way Sherlock looked at him, he looked at Sherlock like he was in love.

Sometimes, late at night, when John did acknowledge the fact that Sherlock was simply a figment of his imagination, he wondered if it was narcissistic to fall in love with him. He was, afterall, a part of his own mind. Sometimes, he wondered if this was Sherlock's ghost. He wished it was. Sometimes, he forgot Sherlock had died and that would hurt the most. The moment someone stares at him when he talks to the air in the grocery store, the moment he sees Mary when he says his name, the moment Mycroft doesn't say anything in response to Sherlock's remark about his weight, the moment Greg doesn't say Sherlock after he says John. That hurts the most.

Sometimes, John would wonder if he would spend his life this way, smile at Sherlock who stood behind Mary, look at him when he kissed her, bite his lower lip to avoid saying his name when he made love to her, tell her that he wanted to grow old with him- sorry, her. The facade had to fall. One of these days, it had to. John just had to make sure it wouldn't happen in front of Mary. He was after all, going to propose to him- sorry, her.

But suppose it didn't fall. Suppose he convinced Mary he loved her.

Would he be happy?  
____________  
Take the Bullet

They say when you love someone  
You take the bullet for them  
You become ready to throw your life away for theirs  
I was ready  
But he died anyway

Sometimes, I wish I would have died at birth. Sometimes, I wish I had died in Afghanistan. Sometimes, I wish I had died before meeting Stamford. Sometimes, I wish I had realised and told Sherlock how I felt. Sometimes, I feel like shit. 

I went to see him today. I went with flowers, don't remember which ones. I stood there and for a moment, I wanted to get a knife and carve my heart out and just put it in his chest. I wanted him to live. And if his heart couldn't beat, mine would best hard enough for both of us. 

Sherlock, I don't know what I'd do if you came back. I never let myself hope long enough to know what I'd do but just- just  
"One more miracle, Sherlock. Just-just do this for me and- and come back. Right." 

John stared at his gun for a long time that night. 

One day later  
Nightmares 

2 weeks later  
First signs of alcoholism. 

3 weeks later  
Heavy drinking. 

2 months later  
Heavy drinking. 

4 months later  
Heavy drinking. Self harm. Hospitalized. Talks to Harry. Antidepressants. Therapy 

6 months later  
Antidepressants. Therapy 

8 months later  
Antidepressants. Therapy 

1 year later  
Overdose. Hospitalised. 

1 year 4 months  
Therapy. Hallucinations of Sherlock. Better. Drinking on weekends only. 

1 year 6 months  
Meets Mary. Therapy. Hallucinations of Sherlock. Better. Drinking on weekends only. 

1 year 8 months  
Therapy. Hallucinations. 

1 year 10 months  
Therapy. Hallucinations.

1 year 11 months  
Therapy. Fewer hallucinations. Decides to propose.

Today  
Proposing to Mary, hallucinations continue. Drinking on weekends only. 

John was ready, he really was. He fidgeted with his hands a moment before resting his palms on the table's smooth cloth. His hands travelled to the cold cutlery as a shiver ran down his spine. John glanced around him as Sherlock's voice echoed through his head making deductions. He let the cold, sultry voice engulf him completely. He closed his eyes and hummed along as the voice begged for his attention as it discussed how certain couples were letting their legs gently caress the other's calves, knees and hips, how old and new friends were laughing over pointless slander, how the doorman was an expectant father receiving texts from his wife, how that one particular Frenchman isn't French at all, how Mary is arriving with a smile on her face, how he should probably hide the ring back into the safety of his blazer, how he misses him. 

John opened his eyes to see a waiter crowding him. He closed his eyes a moment. 

It's just, when the funeral was over, when the crowds were gone and John was alone before everything, before the pills and drinks and hallucinations and Mary. When was left alone, he would look at Sherlock's chair and expect to see him, when he would opened the fridge he would expect to see body parts, he would listen for the sound of violin, he wondered why Sherlock was quiet and when nothing happened, when he remembered Sherlock Holmes was dead, John wouldn't know what to fo. He had cried himself dry. He just felt numb. Not empty, just hollow. As if a part was missing and needed to be filled. His body didn't seem like it belonged to him anymore. And when he tried to cry or laugh or be angry, he couldn't. But when he woke up after drinking, he felt something, he felt pain. When he took pills, he felt exhaustion. When he woke up in the hospital room, he felt horrible but at least he felt something. When his nails broke his skin, he felt like he was alive. It was funny really, feeling a step closer to death made him feel alive. 

But then Mary came, and she was so different than Sherlock. Every bit of her was different. Mary. The thing about Mary was that she was his. 

He was drawn to her. There was something about the way her nose crinkled when she giggled. How she got lost in her thoughts and tried to suppress her smile. How she giggled uncontrollably when she remembered a joke from last week. How she squealed excitedly when he came home. How she threw her arms around her and pulled him. How her name sounded on his tongue. Mary. How she knew when he was nervous or angry or sad and how she always calmed him down. How she made him feel better about everything. But it was more than that. Much more. It was also the fact that when she giggled it was because of some goofy thing John had done. When she smiled it was because he looked good in a particular shirt. When she laughed, it was because he didn't look good in a particular shirt. When she giggled uncontrollably it was when he touched her, when he smiled at her, it was when he smiled or laughed or chuckled. John had fallen so many times. But Mary always seemed to be there to pick him up. Somehow, she made the pain worth the pleasure. 

If only Sherlock could have met her. 

John sighed. From now on, no more imagining Sherlock. No more thinking of him and saying his name at inappropriate times. From now on, it was John and Mary. 

John sent the waiter away and smiled at her.  
"Want wine?" He asked.  
"No, I'm good with water thanks." She replied.  
God, her voice is like silk. God, I'm gonna mess this up.  
"Right. Right. So, Mary." He began.  
She giggled.  
"John?"  
"Umm, I know it hasn't been long and that we haven't known each other for a long time." He paused and looked at her.  
I want to say so much.  
"Go on."  
"As you know, these uhh last few years haven't been so easy. And meeting you."  
He found the courage to look at her.  
Were her eyes always this beautiful?  
"Yeah, meeting you. It was- it was the best thing that could have ever happened to me."  
It really was, Mary. You saved me.  
"I agree."  
"What?"  
"I agree I'm the best thing that could have ever happened to you." She joked.  
He leaned closer and chuckled. She joined in and said,  
"Sorry."  
"Well, that's umm. Its umm."  
It's true, Mary. Its true.  
She smiled at him. Her eyes on his.  
Were his eyes always this beautiful?  
"If you'll have me, Mary. Could you see you way umm." He cleared his throat.  
Was he- oh he was.  
She giggled whole hearted and he smiled at her.  
I wish I could propose.  
I wish he proposes.  
I wish I could stop giggling.  
I wish I could stop giggling.  
God, she's gorgeous.  
God, he's gorgeous.  
I love her.  
I love him.  
"If you could see your way too. Ummm,"  
Just ask her.

John opened his mouth, the words were on the tip of his tongue and the two stared at each other, their knees brushing against each other. They leaned in closer and closer.  
Ask me John. I'll say yes.  
I'll ask. Mary, please say yes. 

"Sir, I think you'll like this vintage-" the waiter started babbling again.  
"Look, can you just-" John began.  
He wanted to be alone with Mary.  
He looked up at waiter.  
It was Sherlock.

Would his hallucinations ever stop? 

John looked at Mary. She was staring at the waiter too.

"John, what is it?" She asked.  
The waiter spoke,  
"Not dead."  
"Oh my god, you're- you're-"

This wasn't a hallucination.  
____________

Why?  
Low expectations. John always had low expectations from everyone. He learnt a long time ago that the less you expected, the less disappointed you would be. When Harry became an alcoholic and he told her he wouldn't talk to her until she got clean, he didn't expect her to get clean for him. When he went to war, he didn't expect to come back alive. When he developed PTSD, he didn't expect therapy to end his nightmares. When he asked Sherlock for one more miracle, he didn't expect a not dead Sherlock towering over him at an overpriced restaurant when he was about to propose.

But then again, Sherlock had always exceeded his expectations, he had never failed to surprise him. Obviously, in death, it would be the same. John knew that. But when he saw Sherlock, when he clenched his teeth as his lips turned in a deceitful smile, as his fingers turned to fists that violently slammed against the table, as he became oblivious to his surroundings, he asked,  
"Why?" 

John never expected anything from everyone except himself. He expected his walls to stay up. He expected not to fall in love. He expected being safe. He expected not feeling betrayal. But he had disappointed himself. Why? Was it worth it, really? 

His mind flashed to the first time he set his eyes on the man and he asked, out of all things in the world,  
"Afghanistan or Iraq?"  
His mind flashed to a pool. A bomb strapped to his chest. He heard Irene's voice over and over and over. He listened to Sherlock shout as a man threatened to kill John. He paid attention to every tiny detail, every case, every bedsheet ever to be stripped off beds and cloak Sherlock, every kidney in the freezer, every brush of fingers as tea was passed, every stolen smile, shared, private chuckle, every client, every case, every day he had spent with the man. Sherlock had torn down his walls and John merely gaped as he stepped inside his mind. He watched as he prodded and lounged in his head and smiled at his sprawled body. 

Why? 

Why did he let all this happen? Why did it happen? Why did Sherlock go? Why didn't he stay? Why didn't he?

There was only one thing John felt in that moment and it was betrayal. The eight letter word he couldn't quite put his finger on. 

John wished Sherlock had really died.

He wished he had overdosed successfully.

"I thou- I thought you were dead."

"Now you let me grieve."

The problem was, John knew the exact moment he let down his walls. He knew the exact moment he had fallen in love. He knew when he gave Sherlock the power to hurt him. 

He just didn't know Sherlock would ever use that power. He remembered the pool, remembered feeling Sherlock would do anything for him. 

It's just, if John did let his walls down. Why did Sherlock have to break everything he had hidden inside? How could he break everything he had hidden inside?

"How could you do that?"  
"How could you?"

Sherlock started to babble incoherently until finally he said, very clearly,  
"Are you going to keep that?" Indictiting John moustache with a grin. Mary chuckled.

John wanted to curl up in a hole and die. He wanted to go on the top floor of Bart's, call Sherlock, tell him this was his bloody note and fucking jump of the building. Sherlock grieved. He wanted Sherlock to feel the pain. He wanted him to feel used and forgotten and needy as fuck. He wanted him to see John everywhere, he wanted it to fuck up all his relationships, he wanted him to endure all the sympathy and eventually the numbing feeling of nothingness. Difference is, John would actually die. He wanted Sherlock to be sorry, to howl in pain but he didn't want Sherlock to go through what he was going through at this moment. He didn't want Hitler to go through what he was going through. 

John hadn't realized it, but he was currently choking Sherlock to death. He was on top of him in a lavish restaurant while waiters and his soon to be fiance pryed his hands of the man's skinny neck. He wanted him to die? Was that so bad? He wanted to him to either live or die like an ordinary person. And then, a horrible thought occurred to him, the next time Sherlock would 'die' John wouldn't be able to believe it. He'd always believe Sherlock was alive.

John hadn't realised it, but he was currently pulling Sherlock closer by his collar to get a better grip and pummel him to death surrounded by different waiters stopping him in a different restaurant. Christ, he had to stop. 

John hadn't realised it, but he was currently attempting to head the already bleeding Sherlock for a second him while more waiters in a terribly unhygienic excuse for a cafe tried to stop him. His nose was broken. John mind flashed to all the stitches he had stitched onto the man, all the scars he had healed, all the ailments he had fixed, all the colds he had made him soup for, all the burns he had treated. Good. John didn't have to treat him anymore. 

But God, he wanted to. Because the thing is, like desire, grief is invisible. Pain is invisible. It wasn't crying out loud, it wasn't hugging everyone you know. It was something else entirely. It was faking a smile until everyone left the room and even then, even then, not allowing yourself to cry. It was slowly declining meals and losing weight but losing it so slowly that no one noticed. It was avoiding sleep and getting so used to being drunk all the time that you felt sober. Some people smile with their entire face, you know? Not just their lips but their eyes. You know someone old lived a happy life when they're wrinkles around their eyes. John eyes did not wrinkle, not anymore because no matter how hard he tried, his eyes, if one cared to stare in them deep enough, long enough would notice he was broken. But no one noticed except John himself. When he looked into Sherlock's eyes, he saw his own reflection staring back at him and be realised his pain was showing, his desire for Sherlock was showing, he was no longer invisible. And it scared him. It scared the hell out of him. Vulnerability was something he'd buried. Sentiment was something he had shed. His walls were up so strong he realised, he hadn't even let himself in. And when Sherlock broke his walls down, John didn't walk inside with him, he didn't jump off the building with him, he merely watched and cried out his name as he joined off the very walls John has built to keep him out to his death. Sherlock hadn't just killed himself, he'd killed John. He went to hail a cab and called Mary. She smiled at him. John didn't glance at Sherlock as he stepped into the cab. He didnt think about him as Mary comforted him. He didn't dream about him. He didnt think about him. He didnt think about anything. 

He looked over at Mary. He'd propose to her tomorrow. 

Why?  
________

They All Leave

"Does she make you laugh.. like I used to?" Sherlock asked.  
"She doesn't make me cry like you do." John replied. 

Sherlock had called. He called. He didn't text. John answered without thinking. He let Sherlock's voice engulf him. He didn't ask why he had called, just answered, truthfully.

"I didn't think you'd care." Sherlock began.  
"Well, I did."  
"Why did you care?"  
"You know why. Anyways, I have to go."  
"Oh that's fine. You can leave, they all do."  
"Yeah, they do."

John cut the call.  
________________

Okay

From  
"I don't shave for Sherlock Holmes."

To  
"You are the best and wisest man I have ever known." 

Somehow, John found himself in a dimly lit train, nearly shaking trying to accept the fact that he was going to die. He was going to die with the man he loved who was currently bent over a bomb that would lead to their demise. A bomb, not even the wisest man could stop. In a way, it was everything John wanted. He wanted to spend the rest of his life with Sherlock. In a way, he would. But the thought, the thought of spending the rest of his life hating and being bitter about the betrayal scared him more than death. And never coming out? Never accepting himself? Never telling the world, or at least Sherlock about how he felt? That. That was even scarier. He had to tell Sherlock how he felt about him. He had to. And so, from I don't shave for Sherlock Holmes, John was about to say I'll do anything for Sherlock Holmes. 

"You are the best and wisest man I have ever known." 

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He slowly opened his mouth and mustered up the courage to speak, very gently, as if the words he was going to say would break Sherlock (or him), he spok- Wait, why was Sherlock snickering?  
"Sh-sherlock?" 

John walked over to see him laughing into his hand as the bomb lay with the timer flashing the same number over and over and over again.  
What was that he was feeling this morning because of Sherlock?  
Oh yes, that's right! BETRAYAL ANGER ANNOYANCE FRUSTRATION  
"You- you utter-"  
"Your face with the-"  
"You complete and utter cock!" 

What was John thinking? Telling Sherlock he loved him? What about Mary? What about Sherlock "married to my work" Holmes? This could not happen. Even if he wanted it to. 

God, he wanted to.

John spent the night at 221b Baker Street in his old room that night. He stared at the ceiling and studied all the blemishes and cracks in the paint he knew all too well. He did his best to process everything that had taken place in the short amount of twenty four hours. Sherlock. The patient he had physically abused (that was bad). Mary (can't believe she didn't say anything about the mustache. I thought she thought it looked hot!) The train. Sherlock. His potential death. Sherlock's potential death. Sherlock being an utter cock, as usual ( or was usual). His almost confession. (Did I mention Sherlock?)

So, yes, John spent a great deal thinking about Sherlock. Did he consider wanking? Yes. Did he know it was creepy and disturbing to want to do so after what he had been through? Yes. Did he think it was weird to do it thinking of Sherlock? No. Did he wank? Uhh..ish? Does it count if one doesn't finish as one is walked in on by one's masturbatory fantasy in real life? 

John tried to fall asleep but the new memories of Sherlock were fresh in his mind, and for the first time in a long time, he was alone in a bed. His hand traveled from his chest to his stomach and eventually from his the start of his- 

There was a knock at the door. John's hand immediately rose up to his sides. 

"John, are you up?" Sherlock asked.  
"Yeah, yeah, Sherlock, what happened?"  
"I would be immensely grateful if you'd allow me to rest in your room."  
John blinked. 

For a very long time. 

"What?"  
"Nevermind, I knew the idea was preposterous the moment I-"  
"Okay."  
Sherlock blinked.

For a very long time. 

"Okay." He shut the door behind him and walked to the bed.  
___________

John didn't ask why Sherlock had the urge to sleep next to him. He feared if he asked Sherlock would leave or say it was part of some experiment or anything really. What could he possibly say to justify it which wouldn't be bad? 

So, John stayed quiet. They didn't talk or touch each other. It was comfortable, companionable, it was..nice. John woke up to Sherlock sleeping on his side with his arms around John. 

John started staying at Sherlock's a lot more. If Mary was out of town, if she was working late herself, if it had gotten late which usually happened on cases. Consequently, Sherlock began taking more cases. The two slept together, platonically (ish). 

Months went by, John proposed to Mary and the two were making plans for the wedding. And one night, when it got late, John stayed at Sherlock's. As usual, Sherlock came into John's room and lay down. Then, John turned over and asked,  
"Sherlock?"  
"Mhmm." He hummed in response.  
"What are we- I mean, why.."  
"Making up time."  
"What?"  
"You and I used to spend a lot of time in each other's company before Mary, of course. And I have become accustomed to your companionship and would like the amount of time to stay the same. These additional occasional 8 hours help me ensure we are together the same amount we were before. If we're short, I take another case, make you run around so you're tired so you stay here."  
"What?! Sherlock, you can't just-" he began, confused and slightly frustrated.  
"That doesn't even make sense. We sleep, Sherlock. We're unconscious."  
"No, you're unconscious."  
"God, of course. What do you do then? If not sleep."  
"I had expected the act of observing your regular sleeping patterns to get tedious and dull but to my surprise, it didn't. I haven't done any experiments, if that's your primary concern."  
"Sherlock,"  
"I just watch sometimes and just- just stay."

John took a moment to process it all. This was weird even for Sherlock. This wasn't normal. But when was anything ever normal for them? 

John moved closer to him. He wrapped an arm around him and rested his head on Sherlock's shoulder. Closing his eyes, he waited for sleep to take him. John saw Sherlock's hesitation but eventually felt him loosen against him and get comfortable.  
"Sherlock?"  
"Yes, John."  
"You're a git."

Sherlock smiled. 

Another few months later, John got married. The two continued on as before. At least once a week, John stayed in his room with Sherlock.

Problem was, things changed. In a funny way, really. It reminded John of something he'd read before how even though it seemed like everyday was the same, when you looked back, you realise, everything has changed. But that was the problem. Rather than change, rather than go from "Bachelor John Watson" to "oh, he's with the missus", he returned to "Sherlock's flatmate." Everything changed, but it didn't go forward, it went back. It was almost as if Sherlock had never left but whenever John woke up to Sherlock sleeping, he remembered seeing him on the floor with blood splattered all around him, his face hidden from view. He remembered seeing Mycroft smoke, the fiery embers leaving his silent killer and crushing on the floor, making the pavement darker than it ought to be. He remembered grief, pain and eventually, numbness. When he got so used to it all, he no longer remembered what it meant to be happy. He thought, what if Sherlock died again? What if I never have this moment again? Why don't i just fucking carpe diem it and see what happens? What if I go near him and put my arms around his, pull him closer and closer until we're inhaling the same air, until I can see all of him, his vulnerable emotions, his brilliant thoughts, his eyes that can never seem to decide on a color, until we have no choice but to give in, let our lips meet in a much anticipated kiss? 

"John." Sherlock whispered, pulling him out of his trance.  
"W-wha-"  
And at that moment, Sherlock did exactly what John had imagined. Once they touched, the air around them changed. They were grabbing and pulling everything in sight, wanting more and more, moans escaped from their mouths as they took turns taking each other lip's inside theirs, letting tongues slide against each other, tasting and learning everything, making fantasies come true. But eventually, when they stopped for air, John saw himself in Sherlock's eyes and he saw guilt. Sherlock didn't say or show anything, all the vulnerability John had seen seemed to melt away.

They kissed slowly, one peck, then another, never stopping but never finishing either. Desires were controlled as both maintained eye contact and John felt like crying. He threw his arms around Sherlock and stayed there.

Why was it that he felt like he had cheated on Sherlock all this time with Mary?

Why did he feel guilty?

And,

Why did this feel like goodbye?  
_________

What if?

Sometimes, John wondered what his life would have been like if he had never gone to Afghanistan. Sometimes, he wondered what it would be like if he ran away from home as a kid. And other times, what it would be like if Sherlock hadn't jumped. Now, it seemed as though the adrenaline junky, danger addict, former bachelor John Watson's life was comprised of a bunch of what ifs. 

He had to think like that. 

His normal life just wasn't worth living anymore. 

He went back home to Mary and she continued on as if nothing had ever happened, nothing had changed. In her defense, she didn't know John had kissed Sherlock, she didn't know he wasn't loyal. But how could he tell her? How could he tell her that after all they had been through she was just someone or even something to make him distracted? How could he? After all she had done for him? 

He kept on picturing countless movie and book scenes where someone cheats on someone and the cliche line that tips everyone off is, "You wanted to be caught."  
Obviously, in the movies, the adulterer did not. But John did; in some ways he felt like he had been caught. He had been caught cheating when Sherlock saw him stuttering and stumbling over his words trying to tell a woman that he wanted to marry her. He was caught when Sherlock saw him make vows promising to love only her. He was caught when she announced they were pregnant. And Sherlock? He never said any of the movie lines. He never did any of it. He just stood still as John beat the life out of him, he just left early at the wedding, he just offered his name for the child and smiled. And, he looked at John in a way that made John feel transparent. How? 

John was always a good writer, because writing was a one way thing. Almost like a narcissistic one way therapy, all the issues one faces, one writes but he was never good at expressing how he felt in real life. It's why therapy never worked for him. But somehow, Sherlock through his deduction or the rapport they had built, seemed to know what John was thinking all the time. And so, when John imagined kissing him, Sherlock did. When he imagined punching him, Sherlock let him. And when he felt what they had done was wrong. Sherlock stopped everything. The nights in each others' arms, the frequent cases, the visits, the kiss. 

But John wasn't sure if Sherlock know why John felt guilty. He didn't know how to explain he felt guilty marrying Mary not only because it was the wrong thing to do to Mary, but that it had destroyed the potential of a relationship with Sherlock. Sometimes, John wanted to tell Mary would they had done. Sometimes, he wondered if Sherlock wanted the same thing. Other times, he thought about his future child. 

Most of the time, he thought about everything that wasn't his life. Everything that could have been. Sometimes, John felt like he was in a box, in the literal sense. And the box was open just a bit, just enough to let a ray of sunlight shine on his pale skin, he could feel the warmth spread throughout his body from that one ray and he wanted more. He wanted more, he wanted to kick and hit and do everything in his power to open this box, to get out of this never ending, suffocating world that it made him want to hit his head against the box until it cracked open and bled all of his emotions and thoughts and dreams and everything out. But the thing is, he never did any of it. He never got out of the box, he never cracked his skull open, he just stayed there still. 

And then, he saw Sherlock. A song he had listened to in his childhood came to mind, the lyrics went,  
"somewhere in my youth or childhood  
I must have done something good"  
Because he couldn't remember doing anything good in his adulthood. Not anything good enough to get Sherlock in return, to get happiness in return because every time he saw him, he felt as though there was no box, there were no what ifs, there was nothing but them. He felt funnier around him, he felt confident, he felt like air, and he found that, through Sherlock, he could love himself. But that wasn't the best part. It was knowing that Sherlock loved him as much as he loved him back. Even if he hadn't said it to him, even if they weren't doing whatever they were doing before, Sherlock was still Sherlock. And to John, Sherlock was transparent. 

And then, he found a little silver USB with the words A.G.R.A written in black marker and he listened as Sherlock made a vow to protect his wife. 

What he didn't know was that she would die. And when she would, John would get into the box himself, he would tape himself into it, because after what he had done to Mary, he didn't deserve Sherlock. Everyone he ever came close to, they got hurt. Whether it be Harry in the form of alcohol, Sherlock in the form of a fame suicide, his wife in the form of a bullet, or himself in the form of himself, they got hurt. It didn't matter what John had done in his childhood to deserve Sherlock, after what he had done in adulthood, he didn't deserve any of it. 

Because the thing is, before A.G.R.A, before Rosie was born, when Mary was six months away from giving birth, John went to 221b Baker Street. He looked and Sherlock and said, "Sod it."  
Sherlock stood still as John wrapped his arms around him and eventually, after looking into his eyes which asked if he wanted to do this, he embraced him. 

They two had an affair.

And then, she died. 

A disc appeared with the words, "Did you miss me?" on it. And in it, was Mary. Telling Sherlock to save John, because she knew what they were capable of..once she was gone. She knew only they could save each other. She knew. All of it. From the start. She wanted them to continue. 

But, how could they?  
________

John kept kicking him again and again and again and again. He didn't hear the sound of his foot thumping against his flesh, he didn't hear the splatter of blood, he didn't hear as the people behind him brought tissues to their faces, he didn't hear his own panting, all he heard was,  
"Because John can't ever know that I lied."  
Mary's voice, her lie, his vow, her death.

"Let him, I killed his wife." 

Yeah, you did.  
__________________ 

To say that John felt horrible was a gross understatement. To say that John wanted to cut his leg off for hurting Sherlock was also an understatement. 

He stared at Sherlock who finally sat still on a wheelchair that didn't belong beneath him. He stared in impenetrable silence that, for the first time, was uncomfortable. Being together with Sherlock, even if in just silence, was never, never this uncomfortable (which was saying a lot, considering his phone had moaned quite a few times at inopportune moments) Finally, John broke the silence and said,  
"Look at what I've done to you."  
Sherlock looked at himself, dismissed John's statement with a gesture of his hand and replied,  
"I've been through worse." 

John chuckled. Sherlock was, no doubt, in extreme pain; that pain was not comparable to the unbearable suffering John was failing to face. 

Why couldn't he stop himself? 

John was never an eccentric man, despite the whole addicted to danger thing, he was a man who planned, a man who looked at the practical side, a man who didn't look at the glass half full or half empty, but a glass containing some water. He had a strong moral compass, followed the law (mostly), is- was, was a good husband and a good father; he hoped, at one point in his life, he was a good friend. But he couldn't stop himself. 

Why couldn't he stop himself?

A man in a horrible ironed suit approached them. Sherlock, to test himself, began to observe and spew out a few deductions,  
"New clothes, cheap, badly ironed, must be a college graduate. Shoes, tie, suit say lawyer. Shaving foam on his neck says no one close to tell him about it, single. The nurse just waved at him so he comes here often. The way he walks says insecure about height, too tall, grew up with a short mother then, the genetically gifted father wasn't around. The chain around his neck has a ring, old but polished, must be his mother's, well taken care of. Loves mom, no dad around, insecure, lawyer. Must be a domestic abuse lawyer. Mother probably went through it."

John, out of habit, scoffed at Sherlock. The man began to approach them and spewed out rehearsed lines about domestic abuse when John stopped him, saying,  
"No, we're not actually a c-"  
Sherlock interrupted him by pulling on his sleeve, he pulled him down until his hands could reach his face, he rested one on John's cheek and one his good shoulder and gently nudged them closer to his own face in a kiss that was far too inappropriate to have taken place in a hospital. 

While stopping for air, Sherlock told the lawyer,  
"This isn't domestic abuse."  
John gaped at him, he didn't complain, not yet anyway, "Sherlock, wha-"  
"He stopped bothering us." Sherlock stated, letting John go.  
"Right, right." John said, licking his lips.  
___________________

"I think I'll move back in with you, then." John mumbled.  
Sherlock arched his neck to meet John's eyes. Is this what it felt like to be short?  
"To help you recover, of course." He added, lickng his lips.  
Sherlock looked away. Ensuring John couldn't see him, he grinned. 

A few days later  
Sherlock has recovered. John is yet to move out.

A few weeks later  
Sherlock is taking cases. John is yet to move out.

A few months later  
John's bedroom is converted into a bedroom for Rosie. 

"I'll sleep on the couch then." John said.  
"Don't be absurd." Sherlock replied, rolling his eyes. "You'll sleep with me." He declared.  
"Right then." John replied.  
John looked away. Ensuring Sherlock couldn't see him, he grinned. 

Decades later  
Rosie goes to university. John continues to sleep in Sherlock's room. 

"When are you going to make it official them? It's been long enough!" Greg exclaimed.  
"Make what official?" John asked innocently.  
"He means us." Sherlock replied.  
"Oh-" John mumbled, blushing hard.  
"Oh, don't be dramatic just pick a date."  
"What?"  
"A date, John."  
"For what?"  
"For the birth of Mrs. Hudson. What do you think? THE WEDDING, JOHN!"  
"Wedding? Who's wedding?"  
"Ours."  
"Oh, Sh- Sherlock, do you want me to marry you?"  
Sherlock looked at him, laughing he replied,  
"Yes, John. Wasn't it obvious?"  
John grinned at him. It was, he just wanted to hear him say it.  
"October 25th seems good." Greg said.  
Without looking away from Sherlock, grinning ear to ear, John replied, "Yeah, October 25th."  


**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
